My Front Porch Looking In
by TheChicaChic
Summary: AU one shot taking place about three years after 5.5. He knows he made a difference, has decided that many hours before; that the countless innocents without a clue and the thousands of saved lives are important moments in his past; and yet today, after much retrospection, it does not feel enough. Song title from the band Lonestar.


Wearily he steps from the taxi, a non-committal _good night_ his only words to the driver. At his feet, a carryall lies in the dirt, the last remnants of his old life filling the space. His eyes feel gritty, more from lack of sleep and jet lag than anything else, and the simple act of blinking is almost painful. It has been a grueling sixty-two hours since he left Dublin, bouncing his way from here and there, entering cities under one name and leaving from another under a different.

Now, only three blocks from his destination, the lack of sleep and time changes are catching up to him. The only sleep he has managed on his trip has been sporadic on the flight from Bern to Sydney, and from Sydney to Los Angeles, where high in the air, he had been relatively sure of his lack of shadows and threats.

Relatively, but not completely, sure.

Long hours he has spent trotting about the globe, hyper aware of the people around him, carefully covering his tracks as he weaved his way to freedom. Bumpy rides on mediocre buses and rickety trains, the sloshing about on ancient ferries, and stretches of kilometers in non-descript cars has given him plenty of time to reflect on the thirty-plus years he has devoted to country and people. To think upon the many choices he has made, and not for the first time, question if they had been correct.

As he bends to pick up the strap of the carryall, his back creaks, making him feel his age even more. His eyes never leave the house in front of him, brightly lit as he begins walking the carefully tended path, and as the taxi rambles off down the street, he finds himself thinking of the haven he has waiting for him. In the distance, he sees the taillights turn a corner, and he sighs, left with the darkness of suburban America.

He pauses a moment, eyes traveling around the well-kept neighborhood, and as the quiet surrounds him, he smiles, feeling some of the tension long filling his body slip away. Turning, he hurries down the path to the pavement – no, _sidewalk_ now, he has to remember that – and turns to the left. The crisp autumn air smells of burning oaks and maples as he walks onward, his thoughts once again traveling back to the choices that have brought him here.

He knows he made a difference, has decided that many hours before; that the countless innocents without a clue and the thousands of saved lives are important moments in his past; and yet today, after much retrospection, it does not feel enough. Not after realizing how little he truly has in his life compared to that he started with.

He thinks of the ex-wife living in Oxford, the one whom only cordial greetings pass between them should they happen to ever meet up, as he reaches the end of the first block. At the intersection, he looks left and right, watching for any traffic, but aside from a multitude of leaves swirling by on a chilled breeze, there is nothing. His thoughts are of his daughter as he steps off the kerb, the one who while now happy to speak to her father, only sees him infrequently, and never opens up in ways he has wished for. It's his son, Graham, whose image fills his mind as he reaches the other side and steps up, back onto the pavement.

A dog barks in the distance, quickly followed by a second and a third as he walks down the next block, sadness filling him at the thought of his eldest son. Who even standing next to the man whom he looks so much like, will tell you that his father is dead, that he perished many years before. For so many years, he has tried to repair the damaged relationship with the troubled man his son has become, but now, he knows he will never see him again. Never repair the deep pain and wounds his lies and life have inflicted.

His thoughts are pulled to the countless friends and colleagues who have perished over the years, shielding the people of the country they had sworn to protect. As he walks past browning gardens – no, _lawns_ here in America – he feels regret for all those he directed to their deaths, and sorrow for the numerous loved ones who will never again see a husband or a wife, a father or a mother, a son or daughter. Never know the true sacrifice they made. The streetlights casting their weak glow onto the streets does little to light the world he is currently seeing, the haze of his past clouding the present.

He crosses another street, his heart heavy as he reaches the third – and last – block of his journey. As he passes the comfortable colonial-style houses and cottages, his mind travels to his worst mistakes. The sins of the past he has repeated with his second wife. Regret fills his heart, rendering his feet heavy as he trudges these last feet.

Oh, it's not the lies or affairs that had destroyed his first marriage and wife. Not once has either crossed his mind; once he fell in love with Ruth, that was it.. He's not sure he could even have _sex_ with another woman without seeing her likeness in his mind, without calling out her name.

No, it's the lost time.

The long years with only sporadic visits spent in touristy places for long weekends. The week here and there he had managed to spend with his family in their secret location. What does it say that his longest visit had occurred just seven months after she had left on that red barge? That in three years, the only time he had managed two weeks with them had been the night he had brought Wes to live with his adopted aunt, which had turned out to be the night their son had been born.

Even then, it had taken finagling and Adam's death to get those full two weeks, and he only just made James' birth. Had there not been complications requiring Ruth to undergo a C-Section, and had he not already been on his way, he would have missed it. He still holds much guilt that after how little he had truly done during the pregnancy, he had been the first to hold their son.

Yet, angel that she was, Ruth did not hold any of it against him. For three years, she had basically been a single mother to a boy who'd lost both his mother and father in such a short time; and was considered dead in his own right; and an infant all while living and working in a totally different country. She had juggled so much in ways that he was not sure he could ever have managed.

He stops at the end of a walk lined with a multitude of colored mums, and for a moment, he just observes the house. It is a large colonial brick home, and from his last visit, he knows the shutters have been painted a vibrant green to match the old wood farm door Ruth had found at some estate sale. Bushes line the front, hiding the advanced security system that Malcolm; the only person from their old life who currently knew they were all alive or even where they lived; had outfitted many years before.

But it's the lights coming through the large windows from the equally large living room that holds his gaze. Through slanted blinds, he can see the brunette hair of the woman he loves, the dark blonde hair of their son resting against her shoulder as she leans over the tasseled brown hair he knows is Wes'. And at that moment, all the sadness and regrets he has been feeling since he left Dublin are gone.

He's made mistakes, but who hasn't? No person is perfect; no one can live their life without making a mess of things at least once. It's how they learn from those mistakes, and the changes that they make that truly matter. It's how you honor and remember those who gave their lives those sacrifices worth it.

He reaches into his pocket as he walks up the brick walk, his fingers closing around keys he has carried with him since the day she climbed on that barge. As he nears the front door, he's about to pull them out, to insert them into the deadbolt separating him from those he loves, when the wood opens.

There in the bright lights, slightly disheveled in black knit pants and a baggy white jumper, toddler clasping a sippy cup to his chest in her arms, stands Ruth, a large smile on her face as she breathes his name. Beside her, Wes stands, his ten-year-old frame reaching her shoulder as he smiles at his uncle. It takes no time for him to cross those last few feet and step into the warm interior. Even less for him to sweep the three of them into his arms, holding them close, the solidness of his family chasing away any last whispers of doubt, regret, and worry.

 ** _~ H & R ~_**

 ** _AN: A very big thank you to the readers who reviewed my last one shot,_** _I Got The Boy_ **, _your thoughts and comments were much appreciated. This one shot was once again inspired by a song on the radio station the ladies at work were listening to today as well as a multi-chapter fic I'm currently working on for Harry and Ruth. I do hope you've enjoyed this little one shot. Xx_**


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